CavalierYou sat with one hand on the dashboard,
your other one shaking,
reluctantly dancing with a cheap cigarette,
that you were simply burning,
because something needed to die.
We didn't look each other in the eye,
except in the rear view mirror,
the irony not yet reflected.
I will never forget that six thousand mile stare,
many times your age shining from the endless deep,
the weight of everything you carry
written in ruptured veins.
"Old ghosts dancing again," I said.
"This is not very good," I whispered,
tightened throat and eyes aflame.
You echoed, and then you were gone.
I remained for a while, in that wreck of a Chevy,
marooned in a landscape of broken plastic,
trees of straws and cavernous containers,
all your books and other secret escapes.
Last chance to seeIt's a odd kind of feelingLast chance to see2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
and an odd kind of peeling
the day you kiss your former self
that decisive goodbye,
then quickly rip your lips
from the parting.
There is no time frame,
no milestone markers
at the logical divisions.
One day you simply wake up empty,
a slight rumble in your snakeskin stomach,
then nothing but the seeping quiet.
Your flaking blood surfs the sloping light shafts
searching for new ground.
It is the last day, you see.
The furrows may remain,
but the uncertain air
The horror cycleYou leave me no choice but to leave the faucet on,The horror cycle2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
see what will come crawling, when all the water runs
out to embrace the sea.
There is a spluttering sound,
like porridge, like a sick child. There is no need for me
to check the source for answers. Everyone knows
from the primal smell.
Far out of sight, someone is driving a car,
singing happy tunes too hard, all rear mirrors cracked,
trying to think of anything but everything.
There is no passenger, of course. Everyone knows
from the lack of sense.
The water still runs.
It turns out that the sea becomes the sky
and the crawling goes in circles.
PressureSomething broke.Pressure3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
A hard CRACK while sitting in
a soft chair. No pain registered.
The absence of it
is like watching explosions in space.
You follow the curve of your skull. You remember
how skulls are formed like tectonic plates.
Your head wants to be a planet,
volcanic, living, in change.
You continue to your left shoulder,
the one with all the problems.
But today, it has nothing to say.
Your rib cage moves
like oceanic waves, expecting a storm
that hasn't come.
You stand up,
you consider your legs,
nothing feels wrong,
But you can break
more than your body.
To the CoastLooking darkly to the back of the car,To the Coast2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I see ruin in her eyes.
We pass another town of murderers
cradled in the pines.
This is the way to the coast,
and it is her birthday.
The sky is ashen and pregnant.
I snap a picture of your hand in mine
to somehow make this real.
this makes the moment unforgettable.
She sleeps back there,
wearing my clothes
Here comes the Devil,
but we lose him
over the hill.
Here comes God,
but we lose him
at the sea.
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn bluescar-crossed2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
buried in her eyes. so much dead beauty,
like an ocean without waves).
she is fading and i cling to her,
and in this tiny little moment
we barely even exist.
thoughts in my ankles 1.thoughts in my ankles2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
sometimes i think i must be hanging
with hooks in my ankles
and chains strung to the stars, arms
wriggling to hug the planet close in
an attempt to reach the
and my eyes are bouncing
out of my head
on twine harnesses like they're
dancing on measuring-tape ribbons
until they slip and plummet and land far
below with a splat.
sometimes i think the moon has an
on a relapse-recovery-relapse
cycle. starving until
he disappears and then, frantically,
he climbs back into life,
gorgeous and round and bright
but the mirror cracks up
behind him and wraps her
arms around his neck again,
pinching cheeks and warning signs
and i watch from my twisted
perch in the sky.
if the skin of night is my notebook,
can they read the dark letters?
i hold pens b
A Gods DebtSutured together by artists,A Gods Debt2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
hallowed out, & spit back up,
( you are afraid. )
Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;
god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselves
grapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.
( spread your legs. )
Red-inked and trembling,
prosetry masked as screams
knots into her anatomy.
spilled milki am a girl with without feelingsspilled milk3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the type with ccrossed legs and closed eyelids
the type with i don't knows written across
her lips and spines and collars crooked with
the weight of love across her back
i don't know
i am a repetitivve being who can't speak
without stutters or write withhout petty kkinks.
but i have shudders in my pupils and cringing
in the back of my throat when i close my eyes
to you, you-
the ugliest thing who can't let me write a word
without acid. without tickling in the back of my stomach
without the cramps in my chest, the slaps to my heart
people tend to call butterflies
though i beg to differ because butterflies aren't
supposed to fucking hurt.
so i'll just call them hammers and nails.
not the types of hammers with a metal crook,
but the type with flesh covering it, skin-
not the types of nails with rusted silver-
but the type with dirty, disgusting contorts
that don't penetrate but scrape my own skin.
i'd say i want mr. perfect
but not even god dates that wel
they're all emptyEvery gap between my aching breathsthey're all empty2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
reminds me that you are not here to fill them.
How did I get this far on my own two feet?
By stumbling, crawling, and falling down stairs?
I've split my chin, fractured my skull, and watched ghost fingers
incisionsin my fragile skin.
How many times must I tear open my eyelids to realize that
Drunk textingI could tell itDrunk texting2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
every time that briar dirt branched from
the window in your hands, as if
it were flowers worth your time.
As if anything we wasted
past the glory,
past the dust.
You were not the half the liar
you thought you were.
I knew, you know.
Every seed I cultivated
I tasted lost, but
hope grows, right?
Here comes the ghost.
You threw yourself to your rapid ground.
Here comes the ghost.
Past the Sisters,
past the Tombs.
You said you loved me.
I didn't respond
eight things about growing up.eighteight things about growing up.2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
I told my brother I was going to be a fairy when I grew up. Or a bird, or sprite something with wings so I could touch the clouds.
I learned that fairies weren't real when I was six, after I tried to jump off a parking structure to see if I could fly.
That day I also broke my leg in three places and saw an angel's face in the clouds. (And don't tell anybody, but sometimes I spend all day looking for him.)
My neighbors back in Denver had a son who was a schizophrenic. After he went off his meds for the third time, he painted the windows red and told his wife she had to abort their baby because it wasn't human.
A year later, I heard that he was arrested after pointing a hunting rifle on his family. It was loaded, but he didn't pull the trigger because his mother said she trusted him.
I guess love is kind of like that, too.
Seattle didn't come until I was fifteen, in October.
My family and I took a boat ride on Friday. We listened to the captain
Mild SeizuresI went by that place today, the one with the sign like truckdrivers mudflapsMild Seizures3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It was boarded up, no more 'girls, girls, girls'
Where are all the hapless young men and hopeless old men now?
What new prison have they found?
I dreamed that I was playing eight-track tapes on my computer, r&b, and
hitting all the right keys without looking
I saw all the drawings you left for me.
The lady had to go to work. I shifted, and fell back to sleep.
I don't work anymore.
short-term memory.and you'll never forget:short-term memory.2 years ago in Emotional More Like This
When you realized that everybody dies alone.
When you didn't take your eyeliner off one night, so in the morning
your eyes would look as hollow as you felt.
When you spent a year blacking out the sad endings in your books.
(When you wished that life could also work like that.)
When you learnt that "We need a break" means "I am going to break your heart."
When you fell in love with the stars, and the way he says "us."
When he told you, "More than just a long time."
The first time you hung up to the sound of your father laughing.
When you walked home from a party in January, and couldn't remember
if you were still breathing.
When you begged him to let you be sad, and he smiled and said, "No."
When you saw the irony of drawing trees on paper – and how alive you've felt
after being sure you were dead.
Stephanie -Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inchStephanie -Collab2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of your tattered surface ).
you were the beatific grin
of a kindergartener high off oxygen,
mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,
black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.
(You taught me praying was for the weak
as I fell for your gypsum nails,
white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame).
scribbled flesh tells no love story
but three layers of skin
worn thin along the length of our feverish bones.
(Garden flowers tucked away worms and dirt,
my ribs hoarded misspellings of my mother's name).
dipping your origami limbs into my ink,
you lost yourself within the dark tangles
of my labyrinth roo
Post MortemI am a walking, talking universe of dead poetsPost Mortem2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.
I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.
Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.
I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.
I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-
but death becomes me.
HereafterGreat uncle Henry's funeral was on a SundayHereafter2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
of deep skies and up-drafting clouds, and
everyone stood around the mahogany coffin as it
glistened in the drifting patchwork of sunlight
while I kept my eyes on it, knowing that soon
I would lose sight of it forever.
His mother died in childbirth, and he always felt
responsible. What a terrible weight on one's self.
I reached out to place my hand on the coffin
and murmured, "Your mother will explain, Henry."
My mind was blank during the long trip, and when
I got home, I sat alone in the kitchen and kept
dialing his voice message speaking from the
hereafter as I wept, before the service shut off.
ThrownBones heapedThrown2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
like uncaught bonfires.
Crash lander, skyborn,
splintered like frostbitten stones,
like trees fallen deep
from the snow line.
Eulogy of a man that was,
and the name of his lover written
in femurs, vertebrae and ribs,
waiting for the thaw,
the salmon and the sea.
All memories carried by wolves
to their starving cubs.
Open skull for the rainfall
and the birds.
The landscape of skin
imprinted on the ground.
A fading map
with footstep borders
in the tide of time.
TiredI am tired, heavy-footed, worn with wear I wear my hairTired3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Cold air blows through windows trying to nip the buds
I watch the cigarette smoke whip through the air currents
Saddened by the sun's insistence, shining on a day like
I am rust, I am crushed metal, junkyard darkness, graveyard
I can't remember when I remembered what I'm trying so hard
Fire in oil drums replace the sun and the screaming and singing's
I can't sing anymore, like Clancy can't, and the noise in my head's a
Her Musethese words are not poetryHer Muse2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
swimming liquid fire through ashes
of dead phoenix veins.
no, they are rough and callused
with over use, their own faithless artists
spewing black tar from their lungs
in the hopes to one day breathe again.
nothing moves her.
she would rather scribble her heart out
on physical manifestations of her own reality-
on skin and bones she worships like a temple.
"Write of me," he says, "right here."-
planting sun-stricken kisses
along the hollow of her burning throat.
"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
FeverI like pretending I mean something to the ghostsFever2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
who wreak havoc on my bones-
impaling these masochistic butterfly wings
on railroad spikes
between heartbeats and bedsheets,
I got a heart in New Orleans,
palms engraving names like
Juliet, Alexandria, & Christine
on the seats of greyhound buses.
& I'm offering up 102 degrees of skin to a godless moon
as I breathe in her night scent.
Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles.i.Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles.2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
these god-hands are barbwire's,
snagging & scarring everything
black tongue bleeding sweet ichor
along the guarded walls
of skeletal frames.
'i want to taste heaven.
it rests there,
just beneath your bones.'
he is a
made of scythes & scalpels,
sewn together with weak thread.
and she is a borrowed tree.
lips that beg, & limbs that snare
will carry him to his grave.
'shh, my sweet-
close your eyes, &
i'll sacrifice you to the heavens.'<i>
EastMy window faces east, I sit at my desk and stareEast3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
at the headlights crawling west past the backlit buildings
Sometimes I watch from the roof, looking west
just to get a different view, but it's all the same
Days come and go, nights come and go, but I stay
There's a place by the ocean I dream about, early morning mist
grey water, grey skies becoming blue, solitude, stillness
I keep a key in my pocket with "love" written on it, and wonder
what it might unlock; maybe trade the city dust for ocean spray
Someday, one day, but not today, it's never today
I close the blinds against the rising of the sun and go back to work
But the key in my pocket is warm against my thigh, it says "fly"
But I wait; fate will find me in the right place at the right time
It always does, somehow, and my brain whispers to my heart
to be patient, good things wait, but farther down the line
Boulevard of Lost HopeNothing in these pocketsBoulevard of Lost Hope2 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
But a five dollar bill
And a pint of whiskey
In a crumpled up
Wife beater on
Carpenter style Dickies
And a ball cap
Sitting on a road side bench
Watching cars on the fast track
Doing eighty five
The boulevard of lost hope
Paved in broken glass
And ill repute
I grew up
Not far from here
I came to celebrate life changers
And wake up calls
Sold my dreams
Even in the worst of places
The world seems brighter